Not that in the closet do I abide with the affinity,
Nor that I tread the back door of my brother,
It is rather, that, to gain access to Eden last night,
And tend to the garden I wished to peruse,
I would have to embrace the fermented folly,
And embrace and embrace and nearly drown,
To take to kindred spaces under chemical cover;
But as much as I had attained the key to her gates,
And obtained the blessings of the elderly fates,
I had succumbed to an urge to paint the fair walls
With a masterpiece of random and peristaltic glory.
As I slid down against the bed, my head passing,
The last lines of this tragic tale of barroom romance
Resonate her last words: "my God, not my white walls!"